


More to it than Meets the Eye

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Captain John Watson, Consensual Sex, Feelings, M/M, Military Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexy Times, Top John Watson, bottomlock, how to deal with these, tea of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: Sherlock comes back, two years after his death.Will they resume their former friendship? Drift apart? Or will something more develop?I wrote this short fic as a thank you to TheConsultingTImeLady who had been so kind as sharing something with me. Hopefully, it met her expectations.And I hope others will like it as well.PS - Despite numerous rererererereading, if you spot anything wrong (grammar mistake, spelling error, syntax or something that doesn't add up, would you please be so kind as to let me know? Exterior eye, always helpful :)





	1. The Wheel Turns Nothing is ever New.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheConsultingTImelady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheConsultingTImelady/gifts).



The mail he was holding dropped to the floor, disturbing the specks of dust that had formed overnight, as they would. Sherlock would have explained it to him. Sherlock knew and understood everything about this. Sherlock did know an awful lot of clever things. But Sherlock had never understood anything about human interactions as the figure currently standing next to the window attested.

Time had stopped. Emotions raged inside John. He was unsure whether to cry with joy, faint or punch Sherlock in the face. His heart rejoiced at seeing him standing in front of him, alive, his guts clenched in anger and disgust at what he’d been through for nothing because the bloody man had fucking faked, and his brain tried to rationalise it all, reminding him that it was Sherlock who never had a clue of the emotional consequences of his actions on others.

John stood still, shock registering on his features. The bulk of him wasn’t moving - he was a picture of stillness, but minute details gave away his internal turmoil. His jaw had slackened leaving his mouth slightly agape, his pupils wide, his fists clenching and unclenching reflexively; his breathing, which he argued was not boring, had caught in his throat, leaving his chest broad and full with air that could not escape. He briefly, tightly closed his eyes. Succeeded in letting the air out. His breathing was ragged, but it was only until it caught up back with its normal, usual pace. Sherlock let John process the information, standing still himself, most reluctant to trigger any sort of unwanted reaction linked to his PTSD. 

Their eyes met. A tightness came upon John’s facial features. 

‘It was a lie, then,’ came John’s strangely calm voice. Sherlock stayed silent. ‘You lied to me,’ he continued in an accusing tone. ‘How could I not see that?’ he perplexed, his tone more distant.

 _Emotions cloud your judgement_ , John had been told. Repeatedly. He took a deep, large breath in and released it. Several times. 

‘Are you really back? I mean, I can see you’re alive.’’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t be cryptic. Not now.’

‘Yes, I really am back. I’d like to resume our partnership,’ he added boldly taking a step forward. ‘If you’re...amenable,’ he added in a soft tone that showed how much he doubted John’s answer would be yes. 

John’s look barely changed save for a hint of trepidation and a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

‘I am. Two conditions,’ he answered in a clipped tone, this being the most controlled he was capable of at the moment.

Sherlock could hardly believe his luck. He silently let out the breath he had been holding.

‘Anything,’ he replied.

‘Good,’ John firmly nodded, assuming his captain persona. ‘One, no more lies. Two, you explain everything that has to do with that day. And everything that happened after. Clear enough?’

‘Yes,’ came Sherlock’s answer, quick as lightning.

‘Emotions included,’ John precised.

Sherlock’s breath hitched. John knew that emotions were not his … strong suit. He agreed nonetheless. ‘Of course.’

 

***

 

Months passed slowly, each of them reacquainting with the other’s presence. They worked together, went to dinner to celebrate Sherlock solving yet another case, and went home, each to his respective place. Gradually, John had taken to come up with Sherlock and indulge in a cup of tea that the detective eagerly prepared for him.

The cases they worked on were given by the Yard still, but since the British Government had unequivocally cleared Sherlock's name, the number of clients became staggering almost overnight.

Private clients offered simple enough cases, most of the times. When unforeseen developments that would lengthen the time to bring the case to a conclusive solution arose, John and Sherlock would look at each other. The first and second time it happened, they had needed to exchange words on how to proceed. However, on the third time it happened, their communication had become non verbal. 

Slowly and ineluctably, Sherlock and John returned to the easy companionship they used to share. Gradually they became as close as they used to, the other’s personal space becoming an extension of their own.

Evidently they had a few fall outs in the early beginnings, especially when the question why was answered. Sherlock, mindful of respecting the first condition John had given him, had told him that there was more to it and that it concerned him but that ‘Every evidence indicate that you are not ready to deal with the emotional aspect of it just yet.’ John had insisted, threatened, insisted again, tried to coax Sherlock into telling him. ‘There is nothing you can do. I will tell you in due time but not now.’

‘After everything you’ve put me through, Sherlock, everything I had to deal with after you decided to take an extra-long holiday without telling me any of it, I have the right to know. And I will handle it. Like a soldier.’

‘John, this is ridiculous. Soldiers don’t handle emotions, as you’ve demonstrated again and again. They repress them.’

‘And that makes us even more able to deal with whatever is thrown at us.’

‘Weren’t you the one who said that lying was not good?’ Sherlock had asked.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ John had replied, taken aback by Sherlock’s seemingly unrelated question.

‘You will lie to yourself when I tell you the truth,’ he answered softly. ‘The agreement is no more lies, I believe. You are not ready,’ Sherlock concluded. His tone, though kind, clearly indicated that he would not give more details or expand on the subject except on his own terms.

John had been in a surly mood for several days after this, but it eventually abated as another case appeared and turned out to be more interesting and difficult than anticipated. Sherlock was over the moon and John basked in his brilliance and communicative joy.

 

***

‘Sherlock, this is ridiculous,’ John said in a disbelieving tone.

‘It would be more practical. Our current arrangement is idiotic,’ Sherlock countered.

‘Let me think about it, Sherlock,’ John sighed unconvincingly. He wanted to move back in 221b Baker Street but needed time. Or so he pretended. _Lying to yourself, Watson._

‘So, what do you make of it, then, Sherlock?’ 

Right. Crime scene. Focus. 

‘Nothing more than a boring murder. The husband, our victim, clearly cheated on his wife and she proceeded to kill both him and his mistress. Transparent.’

‘Yeah, sure. Any evidence to show for that conclusion?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

‘If your team weren’t useless, they would have spotted everything of relevance, tagged it and taken it in,’ he replied. John looked at him out the corner of his eye, a question on his face.

‘Get me an evidence bag,’ he demanded, extending his hand and stopping it in the air, as if Lestrade could manifest an evidence bag in the following two seconds.

‘Why were you playing for time?’ John whispered as soon as D.I. Lestrade was out of earshot.

‘Over a cup of tea, John,’ Sherlock answered, not bothering to lower his voice down. ‘Oh, do relax. People’s brains are actually attuned to words relevant to their interests. They are not interested in listening in if we say innocuous words. Now, if I were to -’

‘Yes, yes, okay. Cup of tea it is,’ John interrupted. ‘God, you’re such a prick!’ he added in a huff of very mild annoyance as he saw the Detective Inspector return with what Sherlock had asked.

‘Just so we’re clear, Sherlock. You are not on the forensic team. You have to be reasonable in what you bag,’ he said giving him the evidence bag.

‘Whatever you say,’ he replied, proceeding in taking a bit of both victims’ saliva. ‘You’ll find the murder weapon in there,’ he said, nodding towards the bags. ‘Balance of probability suggests it was committed by a woman. The male victim’s wife.’

‘How do you know they were married?’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Husband and wife, partners, in an exclusive relationship, it doesn’t make any sort of difference. The man is clearly older than the female victim here, there’s no trace of her in any picture in the house, you’ll find that the traces of lipstick on his collar match...’ 

‘Rachel’s’, John supplied.

‘She’s got skin and grime underneath her nails, her underwear has clearly been removed in haste and she has not bothered to put it back on. They were having an affair. Obviously.’

‘Obviously.’ John echoed.

‘Right, yeah, and evidence that Julie is the murderess?’

‘Julie?’

‘The wife.’

‘Oh, who else could it have been? Process of elimination. The man -’

‘Richard’

‘Was clearly in a relationship. He was not happy in it - look at the pictures, it’s obvious that he’s not. The abundance of gray hair alone should have been clue enough. Now when you look at him you can see that he’s dyed his hair, that he’s lost weight and he’s also started on a bit of Botox injections. Not for the benefit of his wife who looks happy as they are. He was having an affair - and his wife, who suspected that, was not happy about it (she’d got more lines on her face in the last few months, just have a look at the cupboards in her bathroom: they’re at least three different types of anti-ageing creams). Confirmation of her spouse cheating was the last straw. She devised a plan to obtain revenge on the man who wronged her and on the woman who was his accomplice.’ Sherlock apparently found something interesting on her shelves. ‘Dust is eloquent. This book’s been opened recently while all the others have not been for some time. It’s on her side of the library, so clearly one of hers. One that she felt confident her husband wouldn’t look through, and in which she concealed - ‘

‘Poison,’ John finished. ‘Fantastic!’ Sherlock’s breath caught. 

‘I’m sure the victims would beg to differ,’ Greg said. 

‘It was a simple murder. I told you there was nothing to it. Run a comparison test between the poison and the contents of their saliva’ he added, giving the bags of evidence and the book to Greg. ‘Come along, John,’ Sherlock called. ‘It’s cold outside, cup of tea would warm me up,’ he added as he left the house and hailed a cab which materialised in an instant. ‘221b Baker Street,’ he told the cabbie as John settled in the car. 

The ride to Baker Street was fast. As they had always done, Sherlock rushed out of the taxi and opened the door while John paid. This time, however, Sherlock waited for John on the threshold.

‘Here. Even if you don’t want to come back living in the flat, you must have the keys,’ he said placing them in John’s hands. ‘Don’t even think of pretending to forget them here. You know it won’t work,’ he added as they walked up the stairs. 

John cleared his throat, as if to say something along the lines of ‘Yeah, sure mate. Whatever you say.’ 

When they entered the flat, Sherlock divested himself of his coat, hung it along with his scarf. His armor discarded, he walked into the kitchen, filled the kettle and set it on. Meanwhile, John peered around the flat, noticing that nothing he had touched had changed since the last time he had come before sitting in his chair, taking up all the space it allowed him. 

They spent an agreeable time together. 

‘So, was there a particular reason you wanted to have tea, Sherlock? We do have the habit of having some rather often.’

‘We do, don’t we?’

‘Yes, and if you wouldn’t mind telling me why that’d be great.’

Sherlock briefly closed his eye. ‘Because it’s time I told you why, John,’ he declared simply. His tone was full of meaning and sincerity that John understood immediately what the topic of their conversation would be. He braced himself, ready to hold back his anger and the impulse to punch and kick Sherlock.

‘I lied to protect you.’

John looked at him incredulously and barked a forced laugh. ‘Sherlock,’ he growled warningly. ‘The truth, you promised.’

‘John,’ Sherlock replied, putting his cup down. ‘I couldn’t be more honest. I jumped to protect you. I faked my death to save your life.’

‘Why are you so cruel?!’ shouted John, all but jumping out of his chair. ‘This is so… And you’re not…! ‘Emotion is like a grit on the lens, a crack in the ointment’. You said that, Sherlock. And you didn’t...show any evidence that you… mental…’

‘John…’

‘’You see but do not observe’? Are you going to serve me that thing again, Spock?’ 

John was fuming. He had really thought Sherlock would tell the truth. Sherlock, however, lied. He lied and lied, never stopped. Why had John believed this time would have been any different? His back to Sherlock, he did not see or feel the other man approaching behind him. His every instinct, usually wired to detect any variation in his environment that could potentially be dangerous, did not tell him anything. 

‘You are the most important person to me, John,’ Sherlock said in a candid voice, as he dared put his palm over John’s forearm. ‘You were. You are. Always.’

John couldn’t believe Sherlock’s words. Or his gesture. Or his general attitude. The man was too good an actor. He didn’t turn around. 

‘I imagine you want to sleep on that,’ Sherlock stated in a defeated voice as he took a few steps back, leaving John’s personal space. He had been so mindful of it ever since he had come back, coming into his personal space delicately, not forcing his way into it, and John mirrored his behaviour. Sherlock had been certain they were on the right path, that they had found each other again. 

‘No. I want the truth, Sherlock. Pure and simple,’ John snapped as Sherlock’s insides clenched, cut by his words.

‘Turn around and look at me, John. Please.’

‘You’d better tell me the truth,’ he spat, turning around. ‘Sherlock...What are you doing?’

Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, facing away from John. 

‘Needs must,’ he answered softly, as he worked his way to unbuttoning his shirt. 

‘Stop,’ John commanded, seconds before Sherlock’s too tight shirt hit the floor. Head bent as if in prayer, the muscles of his back taut, Sherlock murmured ‘Do you believe me, now, John? I did it to protect you.’

‘Jesus, Sherlock!’ came John’s reply, his voice breaking in shock. 

Time was suspended as silence fell over them. Sherlock stood up and faced John. ‘Do you understand, now?’

John swallowed thickly. He couldn’t think of any kind of answer. He nodded, his eyes stinging. He swallowed again, crossed and uncrossed his arms. Sherlock looked at him softly. ‘Tea?’

John nodded again, his features hardly relaxing. 

***

 

‘You need to sleep more than four hours a night,’ John commented as Sherlock left his room, yawning noisily.

‘Hm. Sleeping’s boring.’

‘Everything is boring to you.’

‘I have to disagree with you.’

‘When don’t you?’

‘When you’re right,’ Sherlock answered.

‘Which, according to you, is never. Not often,’ he amended under Sherlock’s disapproving look. ‘Breakfast?’

‘Why?’

‘Your brain needs fuel, genius.’

‘Tea should be enough.’

‘It really isn’t.’

‘Shame,’ Sherlock retorted as he took a slice of bread from the plate John was handing. 

‘Mrs Hudson came up this morning.’

‘Hm?’

‘Said she was going to her sister’s for a few days. Needs a change of scenery.’

‘Hm.’

‘Too much criminality, apparently.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Too many murders.’

Sherlock choked on his tea.

‘She can’t mean that.’

‘She really does.’

‘It’s been a week since there’s been a murder. A week, John!’

‘Exactly. You’ve been shooting at the walls, playing violin in the middle of the night because sleeping is boring, been in a frankly heinous mood for 6 ruddy days now, Sherlock. Of course she needs to get some air!’

‘You don’t,’ Sherlock remarked.

‘I don’t,’ John confirmed.

‘Why?’

John chuckled.

‘You know sometimes for a genius you can be remarkably thick,’ he answered in a soft, mocking tone.

‘Elaborate.’

‘I’m going to make a deduction.’

‘Oh. Okay. That’s good,’ Sherlock said, apprehension and impatience building in his stomach.

‘And if my deduction’s right, you’re going to be honest and tell me, alright?’

‘Agreed,’ he answered impatiently.

‘You didn’t pretend to be dead to protect me. You - Let me finish. You protected me because you need me. Alive, and in your life.’

Sherlock was speechless.

‘How did I do? I can’t tell from the look on your face whether I’m right or not.’

Time was suspended. Sherlock’s tea mug was still in his hand, frozen in mid-air.

‘Sherlock, it’s getting scary now.’

‘In fact, er,’ Sherlock painfully started, ‘your statement is,’ he continued with John’s encouragement ‘really close to the whole truth,’ he concluded. John was discomfited. Sherlock’s reaction, however, was endearing and encouraging. If he was close to the truth, and that Sherlock said so, he really mustn’t be far off.

‘Oh. What did I miss?’

‘You…- ’

‘See but do not observe?’ John tried for casual banter to help Sherlock relax enough to tell him the whole truth.

‘No, John.’

‘Could you be a tiny bit more specific? I missed ‘me’. That doesn’t make a lick of s - ‘ The penny dropped. ‘Oh’. Sherlock’s cheeks had taken a soft shade of pink.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed.

 


	2. Behind not so Closed Curtains

'Don’t worry about me, I can manage,’ said John as he arrived on the threshold to their shared flat, carrying heavy bags of grocery shopping. ‘I wonder why we need so many things in our kitchen since you more often than not refuse to eat anything,’ grumbled John.

No answer came to him. Not even the sound of Sherlock’s silence. John had put the grocery bags and their contents away without paying much attention to his surroundings. This silence however sent chills down his spine. ‘Sherlock?’ he called, making his way into the bathroom to check whether the detective had not fainted - it had been several days since he had eaten. The bathroom was empty. He heard some noise upstairs, in his old room. Maybe he was tinkering away, being a scientist to chase the boredom away, working on a cold case that involved chemistry...He walked up the stairs to what was now Sherlock’s laboratory, opened the door, angry at the idea that Sherlock was there and had not deigned paying him any sort of attention and notice he had gone shopping and was now back, calling for him. The room was empty. 

Properly worried now, John ran down the stairs. Where could he b- Oh. Could he be...It had been a few days since Sherlock had slept properly. Maybe he was in the bedroom, at last catching a bit of sleep. Or he had let sleep catch up with him. He put his hand on the door handle and turned it, softly. He didn’t want to risk waking Sherlock up if he was sleeping.

Sherlock was on the bed, sitting. Sitting. His fingers were steepled underneath his chin, his eyes closed in his classic I’m-thinking-leave-me-alone pose. John’s worry disappeared as soon as he laid eyes on him. 

God, he was beautiful, alabaster skin against tight, dark clothing. A pair of dark trousers that didn’t reveal much given the cross-legged position he was in, no shoes as per John’s instruction _No shoes on the bed!_ and a deep blue shirt, its sleeves rolled up, the top three buttons undone. 

Heat flared up in his belly. Seeing Sherlock like this, no matter how often it was, always brought deep, dark arousal. 

‘I was expecting more of you. Private,’ Captain John Watson reproved. Sherlock opened his eyes, visibly putting an immediate stop to whatever he was doing. ‘I required assistance and you didn’t come when called,’ he continued, his tone admonishing.

Sherlock had come out of his thinking reverie.

‘Stand at attention, private!’ ordered John. ‘I will not tolerate disrespect,’ he added forcefully as Sherlock had not yet obeyed the direct order from his Captain. 

Sherlock stood up from the bed, smoothed his suit down - standing at attention meant that not only the posture, but also the clothes had to be impeccable - straightened his back and waited.

‘What is this? I come home to find you lounging about, doing nothing of importance. Your clothes are in too good condition. You do understand that they need to be tarnished. Or wrinkled, at the very least.’

Sherlock gulped and nodded.

‘I didn’t catch that, Private.’

Sherlock’s breath hitched when Captain Watson came closer to his mouth, pretending to listen to his answer.

‘Yes. I understand. Sir,’ he added when he saw the look of profound disapproval in his commanding officer’s eyes. 

‘I am going to discipline you, soldier. And you are going to keep your clothes on. At all times. Is that quite clear?’ Sherlock nodded, once again.

‘Private. I won’t ask another time.’

‘Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir.’

‘That’s better. Get on your knees.’

Sherlock threw John a questioning look, as if he didn’t know what would happen next.

‘You heard me perfectly, soldier. On your knees. Now,’ he repeated a little forcefully. As Sherlock got to his knees, something didn’t appear right to John. He looked at him. Bent down he searched his face, looking for the slightest trace of hesitation, of apprehension. He didn’t find anything, but still something wasn’t right. 

‘Open your shirt, Private.’

'It’s already open. Sir.’

John threw him a glare.

‘Disrespecting your Captain.’ Sherlock looked down. ‘Open your shirt more.’ 

John watched Sherlock’s dexterous fingers work down the buttons of his shirt. Magnificent. He roamed his eyes on Sherlock’s almost bare chest. Barely a hair. His torso already tinted red, a faint sheen of sweat - and John had not even begun to discipline his insubordinate soldier. 

‘Private. Your tags. You have to wear your tags. At all times.’

‘Sorry. I forgot.’

Captain John Watson took in a very sharp breath.

‘I’m sorry, Sir. I forgot them, Sir.’ Sherlock really looked embarrassed. ‘It won’t happen again, Sir,’ he added for good measure when he saw the look of utter disappointment on his Captain’s face.

John took Sherlock’s chin in a firm hand, pushed his head upwards. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see how dissatisfied John was. ‘Look at me, Private.’

As he opened his eyes, Sherlock could only see a deep disgruntled scowl on his Captain’s face. He lowered his gaze.

‘Get up. Get them. Put them on.’

Sherlock did not dare move, he did not know whether his Captain was ordering him or mocking him.

‘Hurry up!’ he barked.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, absent-mindedly rubbed his neck as he walked to his bedside table to retrieve his tags. As he turned around to face his Captain, expecting a word of praise - or merely a satisfied nod - he found himself thrown against the wall. 

‘Now, Private,’ growled Captain John Watson. ‘I want you to be a good soldier. But first,’ he said breathing into his neck, ‘you need to be taught a lesson,’ he continued, tracing roughly a trail down Sherlock’s neck before he bit down on the tender flesh, hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to draw blood. ‘I own you, Private. You are under my command. Is that understood?’

Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide after having been marked like this. His brain was starting to float in oxytocin and he was rapidly beginning to lose the ability to think.

‘I asked you a question, Private. Don’t make me repeat it.’

Sherlock nodded weakly. A look from his Captain made him elaborate. ‘Yes. Yes, it is understood. Sir. You own me. Sir.’ Sherlock’s voice was trembling, excited, relieved to have control taken from him. 

‘Good. Now show me how you can thank me for that,’ he ordered, straightening his back and pushing onto Sherlock’s shoulders to make him kneel. Sherlock automatically started to work on his Captain’s trousers, fingers avidly opening the buttons when John’s voice echoed, menacing. ‘With more deference. I know you’re eager to please, but you have to be patient.’ Sherlock threw him a questioning look. ‘Sir?’

‘Use your imagination and that pretty mouth of yours.’

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his face against John’s groin. Although heat radiated from it, he couldn’t feel concrete evidence that John was interested in the proceedings - or the outcome. Sherlock put his nose against John’s inner thighs clad in a pair of trousers of soft fabric, breathed in John’s scent and firmly kissed him, nuzzling his way into John’s crotch, raising to attention. He then straightened himself a bit and brought his hands to the buttons of John’s trousers.

‘Can I, now, Sir?’ he asked, hopeful. John took his hands away and reversed their positions so he was the one with his back against the wall.

‘You may, soldier,’ replied John. ‘Make it good,’ he warned.

Sherlock exhaled an impatient breath, happiness illuminating his feature with an eager smile and bright eyes. When he took John’s shaft out of the tightness of the fabric covering it, Sherlock breathed against it, inhaling its scent, feeling its warmth in his hands. He tasted him with soft, slow licks of his tongue, feeling John slightly shiver under him as his ministrations became more confident. Taking him whole in his mouth, he bobbed his head in a steady rhythm for a minute as John guided him, holding his hair firmly, before circling his tongue around him and applying his exploratory skills all the way to John’s balls.

John was holding him down, his hands on both sides of his neck, giving him a faster rhythm to follow while Sherlock’s hands squeezed on his balls and roamed his thighs, moaning around John. He showed enthusiasm and pleasure at being used in renewed, faster, firmer movements of his tongue along John’s prick, more vigorous exploring and louder moans. John loved when Sherlock moaned around him, showing how eager he was to please and how much he enjoyed it, the vibrations around him giving nothing short of jolts of ecstasy. He himself let out a few resonating moans.

‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed as Sherlock sucked him with more pressure while caressing the tender skin with his tongue. His hand went to John’s cock, alternating fast movements to strong, slow turns of his wrist.

‘Fuck! Sherlock!’ he shouted. ‘Too much!’ He took hold of Sherlock’s forearms and firmly pulled him up, bringing their faces close to each other and kissed him voraciously between heated breaths as his own hands went right away to Sherlock’s cock, his fly straining, almost bursting, just as his shirt’s buttons always were.

‘You like giving head, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Good chance you’ll like having my fat cock up your arse, too,’ he said throwing Sherlock onto their shared bed. Sherlock’s eyes heady from lust became brighter, eagerness painting itself on his face. ‘Oh, you will, won’t you? What if I don’t give it to you, then?’

Sherlock’s face fell. ‘You haven’t quite deserved it yet,’ he said, a predatory smirk on his lips, approaching Sherlock on the bed deliberately slow. ‘You must earn it, Private Holmes,’ he added in a low, hungry whisper into Sherlock’s ear as he settled onto the bed above the other man, grinding lightly against him, eliciting a moan from his partner’s lips. He straightened his back, firmly straddling the detective.

‘Aren’t you a gorgeous sight. Still clothed...in a wrinkled suit. You’re going to take your jacket off.’ He trailed a finger against Sherlock’s cheek, lightly caressing his wet, plush lips, delicately pushing them open. ‘So eager, so shameless...almost gagging for it,’ he said in a thoughtful tone. ‘The things I want to do to you…’ he added in a low hungry growl before bending on Sherlock’s body, tasting the flesh of his neck, biting him more, pulling on his hair and grinding against him, letting his hands explore the lean, muscular torso under him.

Sherlock groaned under such attention, frustrated that John had ordered him to keep his clothes on. He wanted to feel John. All of him. He wanted John to touch him. All of him. Not a few inches of skin, accessible without taking any garment off. He felt constricted in his too tight shirt and only wished John would rip it off him.

After what seemed to be ages of hungry passionate kissing and clothed friction, John pulled away and stood in front of the bed. 

‘Look at you. Now. Now you are gagging for it. Perfect,’ he added appraisingly as his eyes admired the sight before him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he called for Sherlock to come stand in front of him. ‘I want you to take every one of your clothes off. All of them but your shirt. You will leave your shirt on.’

‘Sir, I -’

‘There will be no discussion, soldier. It is an order. Now take off your clothes. Quickly.’

In less than a minute, Sherlock had obeyed the command he’d been given. ‘Excellent. Now, go on the bed. On all fours. Face the window.’

‘But, Sir, the curtains -’ 

‘I know. You like it, don’t you?’

Sherlock whimpered his assent. No matter the façade, John always saw through it. ‘Then I will indulge you. You have been good, let’s keep it that way,’ he said as Sherlock settled on the bed, facing the window as he’d just been ordered to. Sherlock waited for John to decide what would come next, naked but for his shirt, head bent in submission, legs apart. A minute passed before he moved to kneel behind Sherlock on the bed. 

 _Slap!_ Sherlock flinched, more because of the surprise of it than of the pain John’s palm hitting his bottom did. John smirked. 

‘Legs spread out already, you really are gagging for it, aren't you?’

‘Yes, Captain, Sir, I am. I -’

‘Soldier, don't spoil your good attitude. Behave.’

‘How, Sir?’ 

_Slap!_

‘By cutting the cheek, Private!’

‘Sir?’ 

‘Yours are starting to become a nice shade of red, I must say.’

‘Does that…?’

‘Oh, I'm not going to stop. Marking you, soldier. Remember that? So much skin to mark,’ he added as he bent over Sherlock's arse to bite it while his hands strongly massaged his cheeks. Sherlock could feel every inch of John's face, his stubble on the delicate flesh of his backside, his short hair brushing lightly against it as he turned his head to kiss a more interesting, secret part of him. He felt John's breath hot against his own hot skin, his nose bumping against him as his kissing turned into licking, slowly lapping at the muscles. 

‘Captain…’ 

‘About to demand something, private?’ John replied immediately, reprimand clear in his voice. He marked the question by firmly inserting his tongue inside Sherlock who moaned loudly, a strong shiver running down his spine. 

‘Sir! More! Please,’ he begged. John didn’t give him what he wanted. Instead, his tongue flickered over and around his hole, fingers teasing at it, moving up to Sherlock’s testicles, squeezing on them before he licked them and sucked on them. Sherlock expressed his pleasure in varying ways - from sighs to cries and moans. John echoed the sentiment, left hand venturing to take Sherlock’s cock in hand. ‘You’re liking what I’m doing to you, aren’t you, soldier?’ he asked, stroking Sherlock’s prick none-too-gently. Sherlock moaned again in a pitch that clearly indicated his answer was somewhere along the lines of ‘Oh God Yes!’ John’s free hand slapped him. ‘Words, soldier! You’re not a quivering, drooling mess!’ he punctuated with another slap on Sherlock’s other buttock. He gasped loudly, even let out a cry, so surprised he was by John’s change of attention. ‘Yes, Captain, Sir! Yes, I like that! Please, sir! More? Give me more, please?’

‘Oh you enjoy getting spanked, I see. I’m feeling generous, soldier. Behave well, and you’ll have more.’

‘Sir!’

_Slap!_

‘I am not telling you, you’ll just have to wait and see,’ he replied, smirking as he slapped Sherlock’s bottom once again. 

'Sir! Please!’ Sherlock squirmed. The pain his Captain brought him was exquisite but too close to another part of him which was starting to demand the attention John had given earlier. 

‘Private, stop squirming. I’d think the only way to calm you would be with something up your delicious arse.’

‘Captain!’ implored Sherlock. ‘Please…! I need…’

_Slap!_

‘You need? _I_ need you to stop squirming. But you clearly are in a rebellious state of mind.’ Slap! ‘Bend down. More. I’m going to eat you, and I don’t want to hear you. Not too much anyway. I want you to eat that pillow. Spread your cheeks now. Perfect,’ he said contemplating Sherlock’s arse, open and inviting. John licked his lips in anticipation. It always was one of his favourite things to do to Sherlock. The pleasure the detective got out of it was extremely motivating. John moved from eating Sherlock to attacking him with his tongue, as he’d done previously. Sherlock was soon quivering under John’s relentless assaults, a sheen of sweat on his lower back. ‘Get your head out of that pillow. Now. I want to hear how much you love what I’m doing.’

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice; John barely had finished telling him to straighten up that he was already moaning loudly. John continued to penetrate him fiercely and increased his rhythm. Sherlock was starting to see stars if the way he crumpled the sheets beneath him was of any indication.

‘Captain?’ Sherlock asked, puzzled by the sudden lack of contact he felt when John drew away.

‘Oh, I’m there. I told you that some things had to be earned. Deserved.’

‘Captain?’

‘Stay just like that, soldier. The view is breathtaking. I think I’m going to visit,’ said John as he positioned himself against Sherlock’s hole. He’d coated himself in lube - no matter how many times Sherlock received him, he always was tight. Lube was essential, in this case. And Sherlock’s tightness...delicious. He rubbed his cock along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and against his arsehole, in a will-I-will-I-not tease which elicited groans of frustration from Sherlock - John couldn’t help but smirk. He pushed against the muscles and entered.

Sherlock’s groans of frustration turned into groans of pain for a second before becoming loud, ragged sighs of pleasure. John slid every inch of his cock into Sherlock’s arse.

‘So tight…’ he whispered, focussing on the sensation. Each time he felt as if he were swallowed into Sherlock, squeezed never to be let out and that was a fantastic sensation.

‘So big…’ Sherlock grunted, revelling in the feeling of completely submitting his body to John who was gripping his arse as he slowly entered him.

Both of them moaned loudly as John pushed one final time and was completely inside Sherlock, tight muscles quivering around him. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips more firmly and started to move. His thrusts were slow but deep, Sherlock moaning deeply each time he pushed in all the way. 

‘Faster!’ he cried in a hoarse voice.

‘Something missing, there’ replied John. Years in the army made it hard for him to break character when pretending to be Sherlock’s Captain. He was not pretending. He was Sherlock’s Captain.

‘For...Faster, please, Sir!’ he exclaimed.

"That’s better. Aren’t you easy, soldier?’

‘Sir - !’

‘I. Asked. You. A. Question. Soldier.’

‘I, ah, am. Yeah, Cap-tain, ah, I am.’

‘Slut that likes it up the arse.’

Sherlock’s cock twitched at the offensive words.

‘Only...With, ah, you, Captain,’ he muttered.

A wide grin spread onto John’s face. He fastened up his pace, thrusts becoming harder. ‘Mine. I own you. Possess you,’ he said, bending over Sherlock’s back. ‘My slut,’ he declared into Sherlock’s ear in a hot whisper. ‘Mine. To. Use. As. I. Please.’ he said, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust deep into Sherlock, hitting a particularly soft spot with each of them. As he pounded into Sherlock, John slapped his reddening backside until the usually pale skin turned crimson and the detective squirmed beneath him. ‘Even if you don’t,’ he added, slipping out of Sherlock.

‘Turn around. Now, Private,’ he ordered as the other man had not immediately obeyed.

The rush of blood had made John’s chest and upper arms redden, a fine line of sweat glistening from his chest down to the treasure trail Sherlock loved so much. 

‘Lie on your back. Soldier.’ Sherlock looked at him inquisitively. ‘As if you really had no idea. ‘On your back. Now.’ The other man obeyed. He couldn’t turn his deduction-thing on and off like a tap, but Captain Watson certainly could make him. His brain had been off since John had appeared as Captain Watson in their bedroom, taking control. Sherlock had been restless for a few days now. He had needed relief and John had given it to him by taking control from him. 

John spread Sherlock’s sweaty, white legs apart and positioned himself between them, teasing at his entrance. 

‘Your tight arse can wait before I take it once more,’ he said. ‘Unless you show me how much you want it.’

Sherlock didn’t know how to convey his desire into actions. 

‘How…?’

‘Use your imagination,’ came the blunt reply.

Sherlock quickly applied himself to show John how much he wanted, needed him to take control again, to make him his. He rubbed himself against John’s prick, took John’s hands in his and guided them to his own leaking cock, slid three of his own fingers down in his hole, desperately trying to hit that sensitive spot - to no avail, he was thrashing too much, moaned and groaned and pleaded, begged John to please take him, please mark him as his own, claim him.

John beheld the enticing sight that his lover offered - desperate, lewd, obscene - stroking himself in lengthy, firm moves. 

John held Sherlock’s legs up, positioned himself to enter him once more. ‘That was good. Good show. Look at me,’ he said, firmly taking Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. ‘You are forbidden to touch yourself. Is that clear?’

Sherlock nodded fervently. Anything, anything at all if it meant having John inside him again. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s clear, Sir,’ Sherlock voiced his understanding, nodding again.

‘Good. Now, where were we? Ah yes. Using you as I please,’ he stated, entering Sherlock without an ounce of delicacy - not that he had had time to become tight again in the last minute. ‘Look at me as I claim that arse,’ he ordered, hands on Sherlock’s hips while his pace increased. The need to touch himself was becoming overwhelming as John hit his prostate again and again, as the feel of their balls touching brought obscene images into Sherlock’s mind, already filled with sensations, as John groaned more often the pleasure he was taking from Sherlock. 

‘Please -’ he begged.

‘No.’

‘But -’

John slapped Sherlock’s buttock for his cheek.

‘I said ‘no’,’ he said once more, his eyes amending the statement with ‘not yet’, as he resumed pounding into Sherlock’s arse. John brought a hand to fondle Sherlock’s chest as he felt the muscles around him quiver.

‘Touch yourself. Now. Do it,’ he commanded urgently. Sherlock let out a relieved, satisfied moan as his hand enveloped his prick and he stroked his length, revelling in the combined feel of John’s large cock in his arse with that of the caresses he administered on his own. He brought his hand to put pressure at its base so as to delay his orgasm as he felt John’s rhythm become frantic. He’d closed his eyes for a second to focus on the sensations enveloping him.

John, who usually had so fervent and admiring words was taken over by his feral, sexual drive, but the praise he would utter in any other case was there, present in the incessant pounding, in the care he had applied himself with in taking Sherlock as well as giving him pleasure. John’s hands tightened around Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock stopped delaying the shower of bliss he knew was coming.

A loud guttural groan came from both their throats as they let go.


	3. Aftercare

They were laying side by side in the rapture of orgasm, their breaths evening out, their bodies touching lightly, John idly playing with Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock nuzzling against his lover. 

‘Thank you,’ murmured the brunette. ‘I needed that.’

‘Of course you did. I did, too.’

'Anything at all that didn’t...feel right?’

‘Not as such, no.’

‘Care to elaborate?’

‘I might still be...a bit edgy.’

John chuckled. ‘Not taken hard enough then?’

‘Not claimed hard enough.’

‘Hm,’ he replied his hand slowly caressing Sherlock’s back in circles. ‘What can we do about that?’ Sherlock nuzzled closer into John’s chest.

‘’aim me mor’, ‘he answered.

‘Sorry, love, didn’t hear that well.’

‘Claim me more. Bite me more. Harder. Mark me as yours.’

Comfortable silence settled between them. ‘I am, you know. Yours.’

John dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s dark cruls. ‘I know, you are. As I am. You know that, don’t you?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘I know,’ he whispered, serene silence settling once more.

‘You need control to completely be taken away from you, is that what you meant when you said ‘claim me more’?’ asked John after some time.

‘Y-yes,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes it’s just so...overwhelming. I … need to let go.’

‘And for that you need me to tell you that you can. You need me to take control from you,’ John completed.

"Yes. Nothing particularly original or brilliant here,’ he said in an apologetic voice.

‘Sherlock, if there is one place no one is ever allowed to criticise you it’s this one. What you need in bed is yours and yours alone. No. Not even mine. It is mine because you let me share it with you. Don’t you go put pressure on yourself on that score. God knows how much pressure you put on yourself already. No need to add more,’ John declared in a soft, loving voice. Against him, Sherlock’s body was cooling down. ‘Let me get a blanket. We’ll snuggle under it.’

‘Is there anything that was...that you didn’t…’

‘No, nothing. It was perfect. I feel lighter. Relieved of the tension I get from so many things - work, patients, people, occasional discontent. Frustration at a chip-and-pin machine, for example.. I feel elated that I can help you overcome the invading overabundance of data in your brain. That you let me.’

He felt the detective smile against him. ‘No, love. Everything was perfect to me.’

‘John?’

‘Hm?’

‘I’m glad to hear that. And we’re filthy,’ he added.

John laughed.

‘You’re right, love. We need a bath.’

‘Don’t want to move,’ Sherlock grumbled.

‘Fine. Stay here then. I’ll run the bath,’ he said as he dragged himself out of Sherlock’s clingy limbs and the warmth of their embrace under the blanket.

‘Mmmh,’

‘38°, correct?’ John called from the bathroom where the water was already running.

‘Hm,’ came Sherlock’s reply. He was lost in post-coital haze, and a bit ruffled that John had dared leave him - even if to run them a hot bath. 

Some things never changed. 


End file.
